The work

The contours of Abe’s move were becoming apparent, though I still wasn’t too concerned. ‘We,’ I said, evenly. Abe had never parented in his life. He wasn’t going to start now. He’d sacrificed six children on the altar of his art – and unlike the mothers of those children, I understood why: a self couldn’t be divided. It couldn’t be poured into anything but the work.
Abe watched me with greedy expectation. I was surprised that he’d chosen this tactic to wound me. The guilt of refusing a needy four-­year-­old would hurt a little: I wasn’t heartless. It would probably feel much the same as witnessing Isabelle’s pain. But it wasn’t going to hurt a lot.